


What are the odds

by WaywardAF67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Unrealistic Sex, Voicemail, inside joke turned fic, just go with it, seriously this was written to make my friends laugh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 02:53:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18306731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67
Summary: Dean gets a strange voicemail on his work phone that leads him to believe Cas is in danger. He rushes over to Cas' home and finds the labored breathing coming from the bedroom is not from a man in distress, but that doesn't mean he isn't needed.





	What are the odds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrenchcoatBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby/gifts).



> The story about why this fic even exists is at the end. But there is a very unrealistic sex scene...but it's Destiel smut, so do we really care? I chose to go with funny over practical. So don't roll your eyes and say "that would never happen." 
> 
> \- As always thanks to my Book Club babes and Dani Kansas for help with this fic.

Castiel collapses on his sofa and lets his feet rest on the coffee table. Twenty-six point two miles. It’s not his first marathon, but he couldn’t stop internally screaming at himself that he was getting too old for this shit the last six miles. At the start of the race, he had every intention of beating his last time, but ended up taking half an hour longer. The disappointment he’d been holding off the entire afternoon is worming its way up his throat now, though, and if he doesn’t get up and in the shower, he might spend the next hour sitting on the sofa crying into a pint of  _ Cherry Garcia.  _

Three years ago he was ten pounds lighter, thirty minutes faster, and had energy to spare after completing the full Boston Marathon. Today, all he wants to do is order a supreme pizza and lay on the couch watching  _ Queer Eye  _ re-runs. It definitely wasn’t his finest moment, and for once he’s glad the only one waiting for him at home is his demon spawn that pretends to be a cat, Meg. 

He had a few snacks on the way home from the race and more than enough sports drinks, that Cas feels a quick shower and twelve hours of sleep will be all he needs to start feeling better. Though a post-shower blow job would be nice, he isn’t seeing anyone and certainly doesn’t have the energy to troll the apps, so that would have to wait until his stiff muscles recovered. 

Because he’s some kind of masochist, Cas forces himself to get done with his shower and in bed within half an hour. This is probably going to be a pattern for the next several days, a sort of punishment for taking so long with his run. Going through daily life and seeing what all he could get done in half an hour or faster. 

He’s too tired or maybe just too lazy to dig through his drawer to find a pair of pajamas, so Cas slides into bed still naked and slightly damp from his shower. The thought of blowjobs give his cock a little twitch, but he’s far too tired to pleasure himself, so instead he buries himself in his blankets and gets comfortable. 

Before he can doze off, Cas checks his phone one last time. Several friends and family had called and sent messages congratulating him on finishing in the top one hundred, as if that were something he should be proud of. Tucking his phone under his pillow, Cas decides he wants to hide away from his stupid finishing time and dream about the supreme pizza he’s been denying himself. 

 

***

 

Dean’s running late for work. The dumb marathon has been over for hours, but the traffic is still backed up all the way down Second Street, which naturally is where Dean’s office is. He doesn’t even like this job, and if Sam didn’t need an extra grand for books this year he wouldn’t be spending his nights as a security guard. But the pay is good and the work is easy, not to mention the nice little rainy day fund he’s building. 

Nonetheless, it’s hard to remember all the reasons he’s doing this as he pulls the large heavy glass door open. It’s midnight and the guard getting off beams at Dean as he slogs across the shining tile. 

“Dean, thank fuck you’re here. I’ have been dying. The wifi went down and I’ve been without Netflix for hours. I hope you have a good data plan.” Asa, the other guard, starts packing up his things while explaining to Dean that he has called IT about the internet and they will be working on it in the morning. 

“Awesome.” Dean rolls his eyes as he drops his laptop bag down. He’s thankful he keeps a book stashed in his bag and that his data plan just rolled over. He doesn’t have the patience to spend the night bored and alone. 

Asa leaves with nothing more than a small wave, making Dean huff out a laugh. He’s sure he looks the exact same rushing out the door at eight a.m. The nights are long and boring, and even though he naps a few hours on and off throughout, he’s still ready to beat traffic home and plop himself down for another four hours of sleep before he starts his day all over again. 

It’s not long before Dean has settled in with his book laid out on his desk. In the three months that he’s worked as an overnight security guard, he’s never had anything to deal with. Not one phone call, no knock on the big glass doors, not even a deer running across the parking lot activating the motion sensor lights. 

Nothing.

An hour creeps by as Dean deep scrolls through his twitter feed. It’s not an app he checks often, but he’s locked in a hashtag about ruining a song title by changing one word. His favorite tweet so far was from an account called @DaniKansas: Rock Of Middle Ages #addawordruinasong. 

He spends the next half hour coming up with several different ways to ruin his favorite Zep songs: Black Dog Poop, Going To California Costco, Stairway to Heaven’s Gate, Kashmir Sweater...Dean is so pleased with himself he starts branching out: Another One Bites The Dust Buster, Bohemian Chic Rhapsody, Carry On Wayward Son-in-law. 

Tears are streaming down Dean’s face by the time his stomach growls and reminds him that he hasn’t had anything to eat since he left his day job. There wasn’t much time to pack a real lunch, so instead, Dean pulls out a hand full of change and heads for the vending machine in the back break room. His shoes echo as he glides over the polished tile, walking what feels like half a mile to get to the break room that houses his favorite junk foods. 

Not having time to pack a meal has Dean angry and spiteful towards the job. He’s made more than enough to help Sam pay for his books, and though the padded savings account is nice, Dean wonders if it’s worth missing out on the rest of his life. He works seven days a week and most days he’s working fifteen to sixteen hours a day, and it’s wearing him down. 

The one good thing Dean can say about the extravagant building is how well stocked the kitchen area is. The room is filled with microwaves and toaster ovens, one of the large refrigerator areas that have almost expired turkey sandwiches and the adult version of Lunchables. There’s a soft drink machine and row after row of chips call out to Dean’s propensity for salty snacks. The room looks like a mini-mart and Dean hates how much money he’s spent there filling up on snacks, because so often he forgets his lunch, or just doesn’t have time to cook the way he used to.  

With an armload of snacks, Dean begins his treck back to the front of the building where the guard station is located, wondering if he should finish  _ Queer-Eye _ or savor the last few episodes. He doesn’t want to finish the show and be stuck without a new episode for another year, but watching them helps the time pass so quickly. He gets completely lost in the Hero’s story, forgetting about his life and his struggles, while watching another deserving person get elevated to the best version of themselves. It’s kind of corny, but in a world full of hate and despair, _ Queer-Eye _ is Dean’s reprieve. 

His laptop is set up, snacks already spread across the desk, and his double shot espresso energy drink is cracked open, half the contents gone in one long guzzle. Dean is just about to hit play when he notices the small red flashing light at the bottom of his phone. He finds it strange that less than two hours ago he thought that he’s never gotten a call, and now—somehow—he not only received a call but also missed it to boot. 

When he first started, the guard that trained him was adamant that the voicemail was to be checked as soon as possible. Their number was similar to the non-emergency police line, and though the voicemail clearly stated the company name, there has been a few incidents over the years where someone left a voicemail and the night guard had to call the police and pass along the information. 

Dean digs through the top drawer of his desk looking for the passcode to retrieve the voicemail. His right hand is covered in Cheeto dust, leaving only his left to fumble through getting the number and punching it into the phone, opting to use the speakerphone so he wouldn’t have to lick the powdered cheese from his fingers. 

As he punches in the passcode, Dean turns his body, reaching across the desk to grab his drink with his clean fingers. Only, the can is now covered in condensation and goes sliding out of his grasp and tumbles over with a tinny clink. 

“Fuck,” Dean curses, grabbing for his laptop. He’s lucky to pull it away before any sticky liquid gets on the surface, but he can’t say the same for the desk and rest of his snacks. In a rush, he dashes across the lobby to the bathroom and gets as many paper towels as he can. The dispenser is one of the new ones that only spits out one tiny square of recycled see-through paper towels at a time. It could just be his panic to clean up, but Dean feels like he stands there for five full minutes thrusting his hands forward and pulling them back, pretending it’s a new set of hands. 

Finally, he has enough paper towels to soak up the mess, and runs back to his desk. The damage is far worse than he expected, and though his Cheetos didn’t survive the sudden onslaught of iced coffee, the rest of his hodgepodge meal made it out with nothing more than sticky packaging. 

It takes several minutes to get the mess dried up, and after hunting down some of the stupid hydrogen peroxide wipes—seriously, why can’t they just use Clorox bleach wipes—Dean is back to where he started: food and  _ Queer-Eye.  _

He decides to watch an episode he’s already seen, still keen on keeping a few for the future. Plus, he has some Jones BBQ sauce on the way, so it’s only fitting to watch that episode again. 

After the coffee incident, the rest of the night passes in a blur of almost tears and deep belly laughs. It’s in the middle of one of the newest episodes that he’s only seen once that Dean notices a weird moaning sound, but brushes it off as some sort of weird audio thing on the playback of the episode. His laptop acts possessed sometimes and starts playing saved episodes along with the streamed ones, causing a ton of audio discrepancies. But when he checks, he notices that nothing else started playing from his saved list.  _ Strange,  _ he thinks to himself before turning his focus back to the episode. 

The time is now six a.m. and Dean is more than ready to go home. The weird moaning has been popping up on and off the whole night and he’s starting to think the building might be haunted. Either that or there is a weird ad popup that he can’t find that needs to be closed. Which seems likely, what with all the porn he downloads, or used to download when he wasn’t spending his entire life working. 

Dean jumps when he hears a whispered, “I need you.” 

“What the fuck?” He’s on his feet and grabbing for the hunk of junk nightstick he was given on his first day. “Who’s there?” 

“Please hurry. I can’t wait any longer,” the mystery voice begs. 

Dean peeks out of his office, looking for an employee that came in early, but the lobby was just as empty as it has been since Asa left. 

“I’m at 123 Easy St. Get here as fast as you can.” The voice is muffled and scratchy and distressed. 

_ 123 Easy St.  _ The address sounds so familiar to Dean and he can’t place why. 

An unintelligible garble came from behind Dean’s computer, drawing his eyes to the phone.  _ What the hell?  _ He pushes his computer aside and sees a small green light shining from the bottom of the phone. The speakerphone is on...did he somehow hit redial and call someone?

It took a solid minute for Dean to make the connection. The voicemail was still going...how in the  _ hell  _ was that voicemail still going? It’s been almost six hours. Five hours and forty minutes to be exact.  _ What the actual fuck is going on.  _ Did the lines get crossed or something? He thinks back to the moment the drink spilled, and as if in slow motion Dean replays himself knocking over his coffee and running to the bathroom—he never hung up the phone. 

All the weird moaning and the strange rustling noises, was that the voicemail? Why would someone leave a six-hour voicemail? Was it a butt dial? But the guy said he needed someone to get to him quickly. 

_ Oh God, what if he’s hurt? What if he’s in trouble and tried to call the police? _

Dean quickly scribbled down the address: 123 Easy St. It was just a few blocks away. He could get there faster than calling the cops. He ran a six-minute mile in high school, he probably couldn’t match that now, but the address wasn’t even a mile away, and still, it would be faster than calling the cops. Once he gets there he will assess the situation and call the police if necessary. 

Without hesitation, Dean scoops up his cell phone and car keys. He throws back the lock on the stupidly large glass door and pushes through it. He’s never understood why the Ulta headquarters needs a security guard, but there must be something in there worth protecting, so he makes sure to lock the door behind himself. What he didn’t hear as the deadbolt slid into place was the fumbling of the phone, a dramatic gasp, a few choice curse words, and the recording asking if he wanted to save or delete the five hour and forty-minute voicemail. 

He turns on instinct running around the back of the building to the small path that leads to the neighborhood Sam lives in. As if a dozen light bulbs shatter and rain down around him, it dawns on him why the address was so familiar. His little brother lives at 125 Easy St. The gravelly muffled voice asking him to hurry over is Sam’s hot neighbor with the weird name. 

 

***

Castiel bolts upright in bed, stiff muscles screaming at the sudden movement. He’s not sure what woke him, but a quick glance at the clock shows him he’s been asleep for almost six hours. It’s past two a.m. and though he’s going to be sore and aching in the morning from staying still so long, he burrows back under the top sheet. At some point throughout the night, the comforter got kicked to the side, and he’s comfortable cool with just a sheet draping over his still-naked body. 

Before he’s about to slip back into the wonderful dream he had about ordering a large deep dish supreme pizza with extra olives, he remembers that his phone is still tucked under his pillow. He has an irrational fear of rolling over too hard and breaking the glass, so he slides his hand under the pillow and pulls out his connection to the outside world. Only...the phone is illuminated. Not only is the phone on, but apparently he’s been on a call for five hours and forty minutes. 

Castiel gasps starting down at his phone. “Fuck. Oh my go—shit.”  _ What the hell happened?  _ With his sleep addled brain, he can’t understand who was on the phone, and why they had been listening to him sleep for over five hours.  _ So much for going back to sleep.  _

Cas’ limbs are still heavy with sleep as he brings the phone closer to his face and almost jumps out of his skin when he drops the phone and the smooth surface makes contact with his nose, right on the bridge where no matter how hard you’re hit, your eyes water. 

“Get it together, assbutt,” Cas mumbles at himself and instantly thanks God there is no one there to hear his poor excuse of an insult. 

After picking his phone back up, and gripping it tight, he begins to look up the number. Expecting it to be some mystery person that called him first, and he accidentally answered in his sleep, Cas goes to his contacts to copy the number and put it into google. Only, it shows that there have been two out calls to this same number from him only one day ago. It’s 2019 and Cas rarely accepts phone calls, who the hell did he call twice in one day?

Realization hits him like a blow to the chest. He has been trying to get in contact with the stupid Ulta corporate office. His sister Anna bought an expensive bottle of face mask that gave her a chemical burn, and when the manager wouldn’t refund her the ridiculous amount she paid, Cas stepped in, ready for vengeance. The corporate office is just two blocks over, and after more than two hours of wait time for their customer service, Cas got frustrated and hung up—vowing to give a consumer complaint in person first thing Monday morning. Well, he guesses a six-hour voicemail might do the trick. 

Now that the fog has lifted from his brain, Cas bursts out laughing.  _ Who the hell leaves a six-hour voicemail?  _ And if any of his past boyfriends or siblings were to believed, they probably got an ear full about that damn pizza Cas was dreaming about. 

Even though it’s the wee hours of the morning, Cas has gotten plenty of sleep, so he grudgingly crawls out of bed with the intention of a long soak in an Epsom salt bath. Maybe he will use that stupid mud mask Anna left at his house. His skin is tough as nails, the ebony to Anna’s ivory. 

Cas drops the stopper into the bottom of the tub and turns the water on as hot as it will go. Never one to measure, Cas grabs the bag of salt from under the sink and dumps in a hefty amount. Steam billows up as the water rises, and Cas rushes out, closing the door behind him, to hunt down the hundred dollar bottle of blue goop. He lets out a victory yell when he easily finds the product in the top drawer of the junk drawer in the kitchen. 

Condensation has built up on the mirror, leaving Cas looking like a fuzzy blob as he tries to apply the cool minty cream over his face. There is a tingle and it feels good against Cas’ overheated skin. The bottle lets him know the burn is normal, and he’s at risk for damage if it stays on his skin longer than the allotted ten minutes. 

After setting a timer, Cas finally climbs in the blissfully hot water. He can already feel the tension in his ankles relaxing. Maybe he really is getting too old to keep running marathons. It’s a lot of wear and tear on one's body, and he doesn’t have to keep up with the man he was ten years ago. He’s aging gracefully, and with the warmth surrounding his aching body, he’s convinced it’s not worth it. 

A full hour passes before Cas is wrapping himself in a bright fluffy towel. After so much relaxing, Cas decides he’s going to get a few more hours of sleep. There is no need to be up before the sun, and he’s done his best to attend to his aching body. 

Now that he’s not as tired, Cas thinks about his favorite way to relax. It’s twilight and something about early morning self-pleasure sends a thrill through him. He flops back on his bed, running through a mental catalog of all his favorite fantasies. When he’s in a rush, Cas will usually pull up a short video on RedTube, usually a blowjob, or some good frotting. But Cas isn’t in a rush, so he resorts to his imagination. The most recent image haunting his spank bank is the beautiful green-eyed man that visits his neighbor. He’s met Sam a few times and has seen the green-eyed man there several times since Sam moved in. He’s stunning, wide shoulders tapering off to a toned, trim waist. 

Cas lets his hand slide down his body as he feels his cock begin to swell, just by thinking of the time Sam and green eyes kicked around a soccer ball in the backyard—bodies all flushed and covered in sweat. It doesn’t take much for Cas to take that image and morph it to the man on his back, the sheen of sweat glistening as Cas kisses his way down the man’s torso. 

A loud groan breaks up the silence of the room, and Cas grips himself and tentatively starts stroking up and down. Languid tugs make his toes curl and his hips buck as he picks up the pace. 

Cas is really getting into it, thinking of all the things he would to do to green eyes when he hears a knocking on the door. His hand slows and he listens for another sound. It’s pre-dawn and he doesn’t know anyone who would come over that early. The knocking must have been from next door. 

 

***

 

Dean wonders if he should knock again.  _ Maybe the guy was calling because he can’t get up. Maybe he’s sleeping or knocked out in a puddle of his own blood.  _ He tries again, this time with more force, wrapping his knuckles against the wood. 

For a moment, Dean thinks he might be crazy. Maybe the voicemail wasn't a cry for help, maybe something else. It’s hard to believe “I need you”, his address, and a “please hurry” could mean anything else than what it sounds like. The only other reasonable option is he meant to leave an inside joke message on a friends voicemail and dialed Ulta accidentally. 

_ Fuck it, I’m going in.  _

He looks around the small porch, hoping to see an obvious hide-a-key. If this is some sort of crime scene, he doesn’t want to disturb any evidence. In his mind’s eye, Dean sees Sam’s handsome neighbor laying on the kitchen floor, a broken bottle of wine shattered next to him. Fuck, he needs to lay off the true crime, it’s more likely that the guy just fell and broke his foot, than a date-turned-homicide.  

Taking a chance, Dean reaches out and turns the handle, surprised when it turns with ease. The guy not locking the door last night might save his life. He creeps forward, drawing his nightstick to his right shoulder, ready to strike if anything walks out in front of him. 

He can hear labored breathing coming from the back room and he sighs a breath of relief the guy is still alive. A loud groan makes Dean’s heart thud against his chest. He’s torn between keeping quiet in case the assailant is still with Cas or running to his aide as fast as he can. He chooses the latter and sprints straight back to the closed door. 

The house is small, and it’s his best guess that the sound came from there. Dean bursts through the door, and instead of seeing the blood, violence, and gore he’d been expecting...he sees Sam’s hot neighbor with the weird name going to town on his own cock. 

His hand is moving so fast it’s almost a blur, and Dean can’t help the moan that escapes his throat. The guy is so fucking hot, long fingers holding himself with a tight grip. His hair is a mess from where he’s been tossing and turning against the mattress. His chest is heaving, rising and falling in a stuttering rhythm. 

Dean lets out another guttural noise, and the man's eyes shoot open, looking at Dean in terror. Dean knows he should look away, he can’t. If he really knew what was good for himself, he would turn around and run. But his feet are stuck to the floor as if he’s been welded in place. 

The moment of shock the man must be feeling falls from his face, and slides quickly into a seductive stare. Dean can feel the heat from his gaze. It’s almost like a dream when the guy says, “You just gonna watch or you wanna join in?”

And fuck yes, he wants to join in. He’s wanted to hook up with this guy since the day he saw him moving in. Dean has spent much more time at his brother’s place since that day. There are a bunch of other college kids there, but they always have beer and the hot neighbor liked to do a lot of stuff shirtless. 

Dean hesitates before asking, “Is that a real offer?”

The other man shakes his head and Dean crosses the room in four long strides. The room is dim, nothing but the bathroom light illuminating the bed. It’s clean and smells like bath stuff. Nothing that has a distinct smell, but still clean and fresh. 

He doesn’t take his time undressing. It’s insane that he walked in this room to help save this guy’s life, and now Dean’s stripping off his boxers and wondering if he should blow him or present his ass. 

He crawls on the bed, dick rapidly swelling, as he pulls one of the man’s ankles around his waist. Dean kisses the guys chest, down to his navel. Based on how quick the guy was jerking off, Dean expects he’s close to coming, so he tries to slow things down a little. Teasing the guy's nipples, and reaching up to tickle his balls. 

“Fuck,” the other man hisses. His voice is deep and gravelly and it matches him perfectly. Rough and sultry. 

Dean’s fingers drag up his balls and wrap around the other guy's shaft. “What’s your name?” he asks, tired of thinking of his partner as  _ this guy. _

“Cas,” he moans. And wow, hearing the guy–Cas–moaning his own name? New kink activated. 

“Heya, Cas. I’m Dean,” he says, scooting back down the bed towards the edge, leaving a trail of kisses down Cas’ chest to his jutting hipbones. 

“Hi,” Cas breathes. 

Dean thinks he’s adorable. He knows nothing about him, but the awkward hi and a total stranger descends to blowie town seems like the thing an adorably awkward little guy would say. He thinks he’ll ask the guy for his number after rocking his world. 

Knowing Cas has been close pushes Dean to hurry up. He wants to tease, but keep it just this side of frustrating. Sexy and mysterious, is what he’s going for. He takes Cas’ flushed cock in a loose fist and swipes his tongue across the tip. Cas’ breath is punched out of him, and Dean can tell he’s holding back from thrusting forward. 

He shouldn’t already be aching hard and throbbing from just a taste, but he is. Cas is so responsive, and Dean imagines all his lovers get a thrill from getting him off. It’s already exhilarating and Dean has just started. 

He grips himself and tugs a few times while he runs his tongue down one side of Cas’ shaft and kisses up the other. He pulls Cas’ cock down towards himself and wraps his lips around the plump, meaty flesh. He tastes fresh and clean as if he just got out of the shower, and Dean relishes it. His fat cock, the tuft of trimmed curls, the moans and whines the stranger is making. All of it has Dean feeling like he’s back in high school and giving his first blow job. How can something so simple be so hot? 

And that’s just it. It’s not simple. Nothing about this makes sense. Either one of them could be a murderer or rapist, but they both just went with it. Dean has done a lot of kinky shit, but going down on a man he’s never even spoken to before two minutes ago is ten kinds of hot. He had a back-alley blow job at a bar once and thought that was fun, but this? How can anything top this? 

Dean feels his climax building and doubles down his effort to get Cas off. He pushes his nose all the way down to bump Cas’ belly, taking him all the way down his throat. He does all his best tricks, swallowing and humming, but Cas’ cock is so thick he can’t breathe, so he backs off enough to suck in a slow lung full of air. He keeps going until he’s at the tip of Cas’ dick, where he starts to suck like Cas is a cherry flavored blow pop, alternating between swirling his tongue in circles and broad licks with his flat tongue. 

“Fuck, don’t stop,” Cas cries. 

Dean runs one hand up the base of Cas’ cock in tandem with the hand stroking himself. He can feel his balls tightening and closes his mouth around Cas. He hollows out his cheeks, sucking at Cas while still licking him as hard and slow as his tongue can muster. 

Cas makes to reach for Dean’s head and pulls back. Dean figures he doesn’t want to cross any lines, but when you invite a guy who just broke into your house to join you while you make yourself come, maybe there aren’t any lines left. 

For a brief moment, Dean lets go of himself and grabs Cas’ hand. He guides it to the back of his head and shapes his fingers around Cas’ to grip his hair. Dean nods letting Cas know it’s okay to hold him down, pull his hair, fuck anything he was reaching to do, Dean would have been fine with. 

“Fuck, Dean I’m gonna,” Cas says and he tries to shuffle back. 

“Huh-uh,” Dean mumbles and holds Cas’ dick tighter. Showing him it’s okay to stay. 

Cas’ hips rise off the bed, and Cas grips his hair, pulling so hard it burns. Dean’s never gotten off on rough sex, but Cas’ fingers digging into his scalp gives him the extra push he needs to fall over the edge. 

He tries to break his pace as he comes all over his hand. He’s thankful when he feels the first spurt of come coat the roof of his mouth and lets himself slow down and focus on the buzzing under his skin. 

He stays latched on to Cas for a few moments before letting his cock slip from his lips. He drops his head on Cas’ hip, trying to get his heart to calm down. The other man’s hand rests on his head for a few seconds before he starts gently petting Dean. It’s intimate, too intimate for two strangers, and all the awkwardness of the actual situation crashes down around Dean. 

He jerks himself up and stares at Cas with wide eyes. “I didn’t break in,” he says too loudly in the quiet of the room. 

“What?” Cas asked dazed and confused almost as if he were drunk off the orgasm. 

“I mean I just walked into your bedroom. I want you to know I didn’t break in.” 

He watches as Cas’ eyes dance back and forth, putting the pieces together. He pulls himself back and scoots back until he’s flush against the headboard. “Why were you here?” 

“I can explain. I work for Ulta as the night guard,” Dean rambles, quickly backing up to give Cas his space. “Our number is close to the non-emergency police line and you said your name and address. I thought you meant to call the police.” Dean’s talking in a rush and doesn’t know if Cas can understand him.

Cas squints at him and cocks his head to the side. “What?”

“Okay. I work for Ulta, you know around the corner. Sometimes people think we are the police department and leave voicemails. You left this really long voicemail, and I forgot I was listening. But then you start talking. Saying shit like I need you, and come quick. You even gave your number and said please hurry.” Dean watched the other man, hoping his facial expression will give him something to go on, but the man just looks confused. Almost as if he didn’t remember leaving a voicemail. 

“You sounded all stressed out and I thought it would be faster to run here instead of calling the cops. I mean it took me less than five minutes to get here. I thought you were hurt and I was––”

Dean is cut off by the other man’s laughing. He’s thrown his head back and soon tears are streaking down his face. 

“Are you having a stroke? Do you smell burning toast?” 

“Pizza,” Cas guffaws. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I thought I was ordering pizza.” Cas falls over and clutches his stomach. “Oh my God. I called Ulta on accident in my sleep.” It’s hard to understand him because each word is choked out around laughter. “I talk in my sleep and was dreaming about ordering pizza.” Another round rocks through Cas and soon he’s gasping for air. 

“Wait. So you’re saying you did butt dial Ulta? And left a five hour and forty-minute voicemail?”

Cas nods.

“And because you were dreaming about  _ pizza,”  _ Dean squints his eyes and says the last word as if it offends him. “You asked for rush delivery? Leading me to believe you brought some handsome stranger home from the bar and were being murdered on my voicemail?” 

Cas howls with laughter and nods again. Dean suspects even if he wanted to talk he couldn’t. 

“Fuck. I’m the one that deserves the damn blowjob,” Dean says and starts laughing himself. 

Cas nods again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I hope [TrenchcoatBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby/pseuds/TrenchcoatBaby) doesn't kill me for this. But a few weeks ago, she accidentally called Ulta and very legitimately left a voicemail that was exactly five hours and forty minutes. I think this is the funniest thing that has happened throughout the course of our friendship...so naturally I had to write a fic about it. What else would I do to simultaneously show her I love her and make fun of her at the same time? While coping our photo ops from NashCon Dani Kansas and I came up with this idea and I almost made Dani pee her pants. So I hope it was funny to you even though you weren't there for the conception. I hope it was still enjoyable. Thanks. Like any other writer on this rabbit hole of a site, I live for comments and kudos. THANKS!


End file.
